


Our Little Secret Ingredient

by yellowb



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8877229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowb/pseuds/yellowb
Summary: Why does Joyce suddenly have a vampire helper?A response to Rezol87's challenge, "Our Little Secret," over at Elysian Fields; you can read the challenge here:  http://dark-solace.org/elysian/modules/challenges/challenges.php?chalid=1940Only the words are mine.





	1. Dastardly

     “Buffy Anne Summers, you put that stake away this minute!” It was the voice of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. Buffy hated that voice (but she found she had already put away the stake).

     “But  _Mom_  …”

     “Thank you, Spike. A little to the left, if you please,” said Joyce serenely, turning away and addressing the vampire with no trace of the tone she had just employed against her daughter.

     “Mom, that’s an evil vampire, and I need you to back away from him and that … that …” Buffy knew better than to voice her true thoughts about the art at Joyce’s gallery, though she was kind of at a loss to describe the twisted mass of marble Spike was sliding onto a display pedestal. “That hunk of rock?” And she knew she had to be polite in the gallery, but that was  _Spike_  … wearing khakis and a nice, collared blue shirt that brought out his ey— that was  _Spike_.

     “Sculpture,” corrected Spike. “And a very nice piece, Joyce. A regular Californian Venus of Willendorf.” His eyes, dancing up at Buffy through his lashes, looked remarkably innocent. But something dark was going on here, Buffy could feel it in her… her … oh. No. No, she definitely didn’t feel a thing. Evil vampire.

     “Hasn’t Spike done a nice job, honey? Absolutely the spirit of Christmas in here.” Joyce smiled at Buffy.

     Poised to be aghast, Buffy stepped back and took in the gallery. It was … lovely. Classy. Evergreen boughs hung in graceful swoops along the picture rails, dipping lower between the displayed artwork, and laced with tiny white lights that twinkled. The heavy sculpture pedestals, like the one Spike had just shifted, had all been moved back to clear a spot for a table with a punchbowl, but it had been done with care; the art still captured your attention first. Some holly with bright berries had been casually strewn around the “Do not touch” signs. And the punch table itself was a forest of poinsettias, their pots layered artistically over art books – spines carefully exposed – to look like semi-natural hills of Christmas cheer that gave way to semi-natural refreshment meadows for the bowl and glasses ... “Uh. It looks … fantastic, mom. Spike?  _Why_  are you —”

     “Spike, why don’t you take out the trash while I have a talk with my daughter.”

     “Yes, Joyce,” said Spike, with quiet respect.  

     “And would you mind getting the little one from the bathroom as you go? People will start showing up for the Christmas party in – why there’s hardly any time left at all.  We're going to have to hurry.”

     “Of course, Joyce.”

     Joyce began to speak to Buffy and then wheeled quickly back around. “Oh, and Spike? Would you make sure there’s an extra roll of toilet paper unwrapped in there?”

     Spike smiled and disappeared into the bathroom.

     Buffy watched, agape, while the evil vampire in the surprisingly flattering khakis came back out, knotted up the trash bags, and disappeared through the back exit. “Mom. What is going on here?”

     “Well, I thought that was obvious. Spike’s helping me with the gallery Christmas party, since you have to patrol.” Joyce smiled at her winningly. “You may remember, I did ask you first.”

     “Spike’s a vampire. Vampires don’t… they don’t set up retail Christmas parties and take out the trash. Not unless …” Buffy frowned as the bell on the front door jangled behind her.   “Have you been looking through Willow’s spell books? ‘Cause controlling people with magic is just  _so_  not safe.”

     “Hey!” said Willow from behind her, coming in with Dawn. “Magic can be done safely. And I’m getting much better.”

     “Not you!” said Buffy. “It’s my mom. She’s done some kind of spell on Spike to make him all … extra agreeable and, and … artistic … and agreeable.” It didn’t really sound that dastardly, even with the magic thrown in.

     “Oh, honey,” said Joyce, rooting through her own purse. “That’s just silly. Spike and I are friends, and he’s helping me. It’s as simple as that. Now, Spike.”

     “Yes ma’am.” Somehow he was right there again, back before Buffy could put a stop to all this, reaching towards Joyce to take – the car keys?

     “You remember where the box is?”

     “Down in the basement, behind the stairs, on a set of metal shelving,” recited Spike, “I’ll find a cardboard box covered in blue contact paper labeled ‘Xmas Xmas Xmas’ on every side.”

     “You’re sending Spike to our house? By himself?”

     “Honey, have you even considered disinviting him? No? I thought not.” Joyce smiled at her daughter as though everything was settled. “You must not be all that worried.”

     “And you’re letting him drive the car. Mom, you don’t let  _me_  drive the car.”

     Joyce was patient but firm. “Well, no I don’t; and as you may recall, you really don’t have a good argument to make there. But if you’re worried about him nosing around your Barbies in the basement, you can go along and help him. I’m sure he’d be happy to drop you off at a cemetery for patrol on his way back to enjoy the party.”

     “Barbies?” said Spike, his eyes shifting sideways to meet Buffy’s with soft amusem—evilness. Soft Barbie-killer evilness.

     “I was six,” muttered Buffy.

     “Thirteen,” chirped Dawn helpfully. “And Barbies are, like,  _so_   _lame_.”

     “They had outfits,” grumbled the Slayer.


	2. Nefarious

     Buffy sat stiffly in the passenger seat as Spike maneuvered through Sunnydale with smooth skill – evil undead smooth skill; probably the product of much evilness. Which really stood to reason: she, the Chosen One, would have dented a few bumpers by now, if not cracked the axle, ergo… Buffy decided not to think that through any througher. And she was not sure what to make of the fact he’d dashed ahead to hold the car door open for her. Or that he was now driving her, in her own family car to her own house to go into her own basement to … “What is it we’re getting at the house, Spike?”

     “Little silver bells,” said Spike gruffly. “May've mentioned we could hang something subtle in the garlands.”

     “Huh. That sounds … really …” She could see it in her mind’s eye. It was a fantastic idea. She held her breath a second and then forced the words out on the exhale: “That sounds lovely.”

     Spike glowed a little at the steering wheel. “I ate a decor- … uh … well.” He trailed off.

     There was a long silence as they navigated the town. They were cruising down Wilkins Avenue towards Revelo when Spike suddenly jerked the car to the shoulder. “Well, well.”

     Buffy peered around. She didn’t see a single thing that wasn’t always there.

     “Will you lookee here.” Spike was about to burst.

     “What?”

     He leaned over her to point up through her window, and for a dead man he smelled unbelievably good, sort of spicy and smoky with another masculine undertone she couldn’t really identify but would know anywhere was Spike ... “Look up! That there is  _phoradendron leucarpum_.” Here he turned his head towards her, smiling, and he’d already been leaning across her, so now he was just very close. And so honestly enthused she couldn’t keep from smiling back. “We just have to climb up there and get it.”

     “For-a-dandruff what?” said dazed Buffy.

     “ _Phoradendron leucarpum_ ,” repeated Spike. “That green leafy mess at the top of that dead tree? That’s real mistletoe. Bet it’s even got berries. Be real nice for the gallery."

    

     Buffy wasn’t sure she’d ever seen mistletoe before, but somehow she knew that was it, sitting in front of her on the kitchen table. Glossy and healthy, with plump white berries. As Spike cleaned out the scratches on the back of her shoulder, Buffy couldn’t get the chant out of her head: “Spike and Buffy, sitting in a tree…” Not that they’d done any sitting up there. Or that she’d done anything that wouldn’t best be described as “flail wildly as the bough breaks.” Or that he’d done anything but somehow grab the mistletoe during his precipitous drop and then be solicitous and just …  _suspiciously_  non-evil. His nice shirt and khakis were pristine and unstained, while her blouse was ruined – surely that was evidence of something nefarious at work. Thank the gods that no one had actually seen her, the Slayer, climbing a roadside tree with Spike. "K, I, S, S, I, N, G.”

     “You’re good to go, Slayer,” said Spike, bringing her back to the present. “If you wanted to change into something for the party, could patrol with you later. Joyce would probably really like having you there.”

     Buffy looked at him. He was entirely, unfathomably earnest. He was also right – she knew her mother would be delighted. If she’d said yes in the first place, instead of brushing it off for Slayer duties, her mom wouldn’t be relying on the Evil Undead at all. She got up and went to the fridge for a coke. “Okay.”

     “See anything … out of the ordinary in there?” asked Spike.

     “What?”

     “In the fridge. Anything special?” He had risen, and was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

     Buffy examined the fridge. “No, Spike, there’s nothing – we don’t keep blood here.” She scooped out a can and popped the top. “Diet coke?”

     “No, thank you,” said Spike primly. “Don’t care for the aspartame. Why don’t you go get prettied up and I’ll get the bells —”

     “You will wait for me here, and we’ll get the bells together, Spike. You’re not rooting through my childhood without me.”

     “Yes, ma’am,” said Spike gently. Buffy stared at him, still holding the cotton balls he’d used to tend to her wounds, with his hair mussed adorably from their fall. Stupid vampire. She fled up the stairs.


	3. Cruel

    “Stupid vampire,” groused Buffy in her bedroom, as she flicked the hangers to the left looking for something to wear. “Stupid cheekbones.” He’d been so very interested in the contents of the refrigerator, suddenly showing the kind of glee and anticipation he used to reserve for … well; for killing her. Spike used to make her feel really special. Even that first day in the alley — the death threats and the laser-focused swagger, just for her? Now it was all, “yes, ma’am,” and “thank you”; dressed like some boring guy who in fact found her boring. Which was a cruel double insult.  Somehow.

     She paused when her search revealed a little black strappy dress. There was nothing wrong with wearing a barely-there dress to a gallery Christmas party – she could pair it with ornament earrings! And it wouldn’t be boring at all.  Buffy smiled a Slayer smile.

     When she walked back down the stairs, she could practically feel Spike spring to attention. All of him. She had brushed her hair full and shiny — and in a nod to the practicalities of a later patrol, she’d donned a pair of stompy boots. When he suddenly sat back down behind the table, desperately trying to look nonchalant, she smirked inwardly.

     “So,” said Buffy. “I think you know where to find the right box?”

     “Yes,” said Spike, eyes wide. “I believe I do.”

    

    

     The gallery was packed, both with friends — she’d spotted Willow and Tara, earnestly discussing the work of Louise Bourgeois with a woman who wore the thickest glasses she’d ever seen; Xander and Anya, looking vaguely uncomfortable and clutching their punch; and Giles, unable to help himself from stalling conversations by knowing too much — along with a wide variety of strangers.  Soft carols and conversation filled the air.

     “Oh, honey,” said Joyce when she spotted them. “Are you sure you’re warm enough?”

     Spike, without comment, threaded his way to the gallery closet, retrieved his duster, and draped it around Buffy. His fingers lingered lightly on her clavicle, although he’d averted his eyes to snug the coat around her shoulders. The leather had the same indefinable Spike smell from the car earlier. Now that things were on the right track, Buffy was enjoying this.

     They’d managed to shift around the outskirts of the crowd to hang the bells, but the mistletoe was harder. Joyce had admired it; but they would need a few minutes to put a ladder up directly in front of the door. The getting of the mistletoe, the mistletoe fall, and the mistletoe wound-tending had together consumed the time necessary to decorate with the mistletoe.

     “You know,” said Joyce, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort. But is mistletoe even appropriate for a party where I’m hoping to lobby the town chamber of commerce for better sidewalks? What if I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time, and have to kiss one of the councilmen?”

     “It’s not mandatory,” said Buffy, awash with the power of women’s studies 101. “I’m pretty sure you can walk under the mistletoe and still withhold consent.”

     “Don’t think so,” said Spike, just beside her ear from behind her. “’s a spell, isn’t it? Or a binding? Or a curse? Wouldn’t mean a thing to hang it there if you could wish it away.”

     “Well,” said Buffy, arching her back in a fake, lazy yawn that made the limitations of her dress obvious. “We were kinda literally under the mistletoe already, Spike, up in the tree. And nothing happened.”

     “We fell,” said Spike with a hitch in his breath as though he was, in fact, a person who breathed. “That happened.”

     “Hey, Buffy! How’d it go with the Barbies?” Dawn was short enough to seem to materialize out of nowhere in a crowd of adults.

     Spike said quietly, “Pretty well-dressed, little Bit, and all their heads still on. Put them miles above Dru’s dollies.”

     Dawn blinked at him. “You are no fun.”

     “Oh, Spike!” said Joyce. “I nearly forgot! There’s something in the kitchenette for you, and you’d better hurry before someone thinks they found the only glass of red wine in the gallery.” Spike shoved the mistletoe into Buffy's hands and was off.

     “You saved red wine for Spike?”

     “Of course not; you know I only serve clear drinks around the artwork,” said Joyce. “But he worked so hard.   I added some mulling spices to his blood. A little Christmas cheer.”

     “Mom!”

     “Honey?”

     Buffy struggled for words. “ _What_ do you think —“

     “Nice almost-a-dress, sweetie,” said Joyce with equanimity as she walked towards the doors to greet a new arrival.


	4. Diabolical

     The next time Buffy spotted Spike – not that she was looking – he was behind the punch table. His hair was still mussed. She supposed if no one told him, or snapped a polaroid and waved it under his nose, it would just stay that way.   Maybe all the way through patrol tonight, a thought she found made her feel quite unreasonably… seasonal. With the twinkling Christmas lights softening the angles of his face, and the carols and hubbub surrounding her like a comforting cocoon, she could almost imagine he was just a man, a handsome young – was he  _flirting_  with that girl who couldn’t decide if she wanted punch or white wine? ’Cause Buffy could show her “punch.” Wait, that wasn't right. Not her, him! Yeah, because the girl didn’t know he was tak — diabolical, but it was unprofessional of him to flirt while seemingly altruistically helping Mom … yeah. Whatever. She was definitely going to have to keep a closer eye on Spike. She slid the duster off her shoulders, and herself into the cramped space behind the table beside him, brushing up against him, and saw his hand holding the punch ladle tremble. “Slayer,” he whispered, eyes full of wonder. That was more like it. Buffy hung the duster over the back of a chair and turned to face the girl. “May I help you?” she asked, voice loaded with saccharine.

     “Oh, Buffy!” cried Joyce. I’m so glad you were able to help out after all, because there’s a problem in the kitchen – someone was sick. Spike, would you get the mop bucket and go sort things out? It’s – well, I guess it’s wherever you left it. I’m sure Buffy can handle the punch for a few minutes.”

     “Of course, Joyce.” Spike neatly slipped the ladle into Buffy’s hand, folded her fingers around it, and was gone.

     Joyce turned to survey the gallery. “I’m not sure why, but people seem to be drinking more this year,” she observed. “Especially the young women. I may have to send Spike off as a designated driver.”

     “Mom? You … you  _can’t._  You really, really can’t do that.”

     But Joyce had somehow already moved on, discussing street beautification projects with the owner of the sporting goods store from the next strip mall over. Buffy resolved to only half-fill the cups of any young women who came to the table.

     Oddly, now there were none.

     No, now there was a trickle … maybe more than a trickle … of rather objectional men. They were all just too … too tall, too broad, too dark; too condescending and too flirty. Some of them were a little bit starey, and Buffy briefly considered picking the duster back up off the chair, though with Slayer constitution she was rarely, if ever, cold — even in a dress that only abstractly fit into the category of “clothing.” And anyway, it wasn’t her responsibility to be demure in order to be treated like a human being (if anyone got handsy, she’d damn well  _show_ them demure).

     Which somehow led her back to thinking about super-helpful Spike, who right now was apparently cleaning up vomit without a murmur of complaint. She hadn’t thought of it until today, when he was being so good she barely recognized him. But Spike might be the single person in the world who made her feel the most able; the most competent; the most herself. Every fight they'd ever had had been flat-out the best fight of her life – not just because of his skill as an opponent, but in what it called out of her in response.

     And whatever this was now, whatever was binding him to do Joyce’s bidding, she didn’t really believe her mother had suddenly gone all magic savvy. No; her mother  _knew_  something. Some diabolical secret (but one that wouldn’t hurt anyone, because her mother was really just naturally extremely ethical) that she was holding over the vampire’s head. That had to be it. The Slayer’s eyes narrowed as she filled another plastic cup with white wine, positioned it on a poinsettia-printed napkin, and considered exactly how to pry that secret loose.


	5. Evil

     The last stragglers had been ushered out. Buffy didn’t know when Xander and Anya had slipped away. Giles had politely stuttered his goodbyes, and Willow had taken Dawn home. The speakers, eclipsed by hubbub at the height of the party, were now audibly droning a particularly languorous “The Little Drummer Boy.” The cups and napkins had been left behind in patterns that seemed, individually, to reflect each drinker’s knowledge that they really should have found a trash can; but collectively, they formed drifts and eddies as impersonal as wind-strewn autumn leaves. “Rum-pum-pum, puuum,” muttered Buffy, dutifully gathering the abandoned debris from amongst the holly, and hoping the garbage bag she was shoving it all into was wine-proof. Spike was mopping, with a faint smile that was … sweet. Evilly sweet. After the kitchen incident, there’d been some spills, but a near-miraculous lack of damage to the art.

     “If you don’t mind,” said Joyce in a voice filled with both warmth and weariness, “I think I’m going to head on home. Lock up when you’re done, Spike?”

     “Course, Joyce.” Buffy couldn’t even summon up faux surprise that Spike apparently had a set of keys to the gallery. He probably also cleaned out the air conditioning vents twice a year, and managed those calls to the utility companies that required interminable holds with banal electronica in the background. He probably helped select the art.

      “Great. You can just leave the punch table where it is for now, I’m going to set up a book sale display tomorrow. Thank you. And Buffy, thank you so much for coming after all, it really helped and I just loved having both my girls here.”

     “I’m glad I came, Mom,” said Buffy, with a flush of daughterly guilt about having first refused; Joyce looked so content and grateful, and it had taken so little. She made being a working single mother to two girls in a town full of endless supernatural mayhem look effortless. Buffy resolved to take her mother less for granted in the new year.

     Joyce got her jacket out of the closet and shrugged into it. “Well, goodnight, you two!” As she opened the door and stepped out, she called back, “Oh, and Spike! Stop by later, but not too late!” The door swung shut. Spike stood stiffly upright, as though an electrical current had sprung from the toes of his – holy moly, he was wearing wingtips; how had she missed that? From his evil wingtips to his tousled hair. Then he swung around, pushing the mop bucket speedily to the utility room, and disappeared inside.

     Buffy swept the last wine bottles decisively into her trashbag and tied the top. She loudly dumped it into position by the rear door. It was time to get some answers.

    

     The Slayer gripped Spike by the shoulders and shoved him back against the storage shelves so hard that the paint cans rattled; one tipped off and clattered away, she didn’t care where. “Spike,” she growled. “What the hell is going on between you and my mother? Did you sell her your soul or something?”

     Spike’s eyebrow twitched, and she muttered, “Oh. Right.” She tried to find the answer in his eyes. Yeah, that was what she was doing. His impossibly deep eyes, that were actually getting closer and closer to hers as he leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest gently against hers. She just wanted to trace the crinkles at their outer corners, and she just wanted to… her lips parted in spite of herself, going in for a kiss she suddenly realized she’d been wanting much longer than she would ever, ever admit, and he too opened his mouth … and whispered, like a sigh, like the wind, with a reverence she’d never heard out of his handsome, full, undead mouth:  _“Pie.”_

     Buffy stepped back unsteadily. She’d been leaning into him. She’d somehow found her hands smoothing up his chest. She’d been insane. “Pie,” she repeated. “You’ve found the, the … the path out of darkness, the light side of the force, my mom is your new Yoda, and it’s all because of the power of, of …”

     “She’s going to make the crust from scratch, Buffy,” Spike said imploringly. “Half butter, half lard? And leave the top extra thick so it rises up like a biscuit?” Were those … ? No; she refused to accept that there were tears of joy leaking from the evil vampire’s eyes. Except there they were right in front of her: he was crying with pie anticipation. Buffy stepped back further and shook her head as though that could shake all the pieces of the world into a shape that made sense. Spike stepped forward after her and took her by the elbows, desperate to fully communicate his truth. He walked her backwards a step in the narrow closet til she was the one up against shelves (but he was much gentler than she had been). “And she’s going to leave the apple slices fat, so they don’t turn to mush. And no cinnamon, y’know, ’cause apples already have that undertone and you want to let it shine, not coarsen it.” His voice sank, gravelly and laden with desire. “ _She’s going to hand grate the nutmeg_.”

     Buffy could feel her face getting hot, and no doubt poinsettia red. None of what had been going on in her head had been going on in his head. His handsome, diabolical, stupid-jerk head. It was mortifying. That head tilted, studying her. She shut her eyes to make him disappear. His voice cut through her embarrassment in a gentle, amused whisper. “Buffy? I was going to share. And ... look up.”

     She opened one eye, just slightly mollified. “You were going to look up what?” He jerked his chin upward. Just above them on the top shelf was the mistletoe, right where she herself had stuck it earlier. She made a valiant effort to save face. “The  _foreign dandrufficus_. And you think it’s a curse, right?”

     “Dunno,” said Spike. “But it’s a damn good excuse.”

 

     It turned out Spike’s tongue was definitively evil. Good, and evil.

     But she also had to admit, it was absolutely true: her mom did make miraculous pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I completed a fic! Happy Holidays to all!


End file.
